The Little Boy From Gallifrey - Part One
by AbbyTheBlue
Summary: It all begins with a paper airplane thrown from several stories up, found by a little boy named Sherlock Holmes. In the window above was a boy named John Smith, who, more than anyone there, knew that he was different. Sherlock could easily deduce that he was insane based on how he spoke and what he said. But how could he destroy a delusion so pure?
1. Chapter 1

The childhood of Sherlock Holmes wasn't deprived.

Sure, there were a few bumps, his brother could be mean, he didn't make friends too easily, but other than that, he was doing pretty well. He could act like he cared and make a few friends, he lived in a lovely town with a nice house. The weekends were probably his favorite because it was the only time his brother would actually be willing to play with him, and even more than that, he let him pick the game every other week. Practically a dream come true. And whenever it was up to Sherlock, it was hide and seek.

He laughed as he ran from the house. _He's never going to catch me this time!_ He insisted to himself. He ran fairly far through town, past house after house, before his laughter stopped and he halted in his tracks. He looked up. The big gray building loomed just to the side of him, with its long, intimidating shadow, dirtied and sometimes broken windows, and vines crawling up its back. That was the old orphanage. Nobody went in there. Nobody even crossed it. He had heard kids say it was haunted, even. Of course, he didn't believe that, but… well, he didn't know what he believed.

He took a few wary steps forward. If he could hide in here, Mycroft would never find him. Then again, what if he was caught? He surely wasn't allowed in there. He should really turn back, he figured. And he planned to, but something stopped him in his tracks.

A paper airplane was stuck, face down in the grass in front of the orphanage. As he looked forward, he found that several more littered the ground. He could see by the fact that the paper airplanes were dry and by the fact that it had rained two days ago that they were all recent, some more than others based on how crinkled up they were by the wind. Carefully he leaned over and picked it up off the ground, unfolding it.

Spaceship builder wanted!

The words were clumsily scrawled across the paper in purple crayon. Sherlock glanced up at the window. Was this place really haunted? Who was in there? Spaceship building? Was that code for something? One by one, he read the rest.

Reqirments: Must be cool, clever, and not boring!

Bring glitter if possibel!

If you want to travell all of time and space, this job is for you!

NOTE: This project is a SECRET! Come at NITE!

Aplication:

NAME:

WHY YOU WANT THE JOB:

BONUS QUESTION! WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?:

YES MAYBE NO

Taped to the top of this one was the purple crayon. Sherlock glanced up at the window. He considered what to do. Build a spaceship? That was impossible. Physics didn't allow it. Then again, maybe it would be interesting. What was wrong with trying? He removed the crayon from the tape but stopped, hearing footsteps behind him. He crammed the note and the crayon in his pocket as he turned around, hoping his brother didn't notice, but he probably did.

"Found you, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed with his hands in his pockets, "Can we go home now?"

"Aw, just one more round!" Sherlock whined.

"No!" Mycroft insisted, "What are you doing here anyway? Get away from that creepy old place," he continued, nodding up at the building with disgust. Sherlock pouted, shuffling back over to his brother.

"Okay…" he moped. He followed his older brother reluctantly over to the house and headed inside.

At around 6:30 that night he pulled the letter back out of his pocket and grabbed a pen off his desk. Hey, why not? Maybe they would really build a spaceship and they would get to leave the stupid planet altogether and mean real, actual aliens. It said they'd be able to travel in time too, anyway, so if it was a stupid decision, he could just go back and fix it. He grabbed a wide, hardcover book out off his cluttered floor for a hard surface and set his application on it. He thought about each question very hard, doing a lot of crossing out and corrections before finally smiling at the finished letter.

Aplication:

NAME: Sherlock Holmes

WHY YOU WANT THE JOB: I am very intella intelligent and I would really like to travel in space with space and time with you. I once built a birdhouse and it was very good, so I have expere experience.

BONUS QUESTION! WILL YOU BE MY FRIEND?:

YES MAYBE NO

After a moment of consideration, Sherlock circled maybe. He wasn't going to make any promises he couldn't keep. And then, he did something so shocking and rebellious he ought to have been kicked right out.

He snuck out.

His heart racing, he opened his window up, checked behind him, and then hurried outside, the application held tightly in his hand. He ran as fast as he could through the darkened town back to the big gray building. He swallowed. It was even scarier at night, like a bunch of demons and monsters would crawl out from the windows and hurry toward him to kill him and eat him up, like the bedtime stories Mycroft told to scare him. With a gulp, Sherlock took another step forward. He could tell from the trajectory of the paper airplanes that they had come from the window on the top floor, the third window across. He folded his crinkled up message back into a pretty good paper airplane, carefully aimed, and then threw. He crossed his fingers that no wind would blow when it flew. He punched the air when it flew square into the window. And then, without waiting another moment, he hurried back home and snuck back into his bed, closing his window and letting a rebellious feeling settle into his heart as he fell asleep.

Tomorrow was Sunday. That was church day.

He had never really believed in that stuff all that much. I mean, to him, science made a whole lot more sense. But he sat there, bored, just to make his parents happy. It wasn't hard. Just boring.

After church ended, they returned to his house and he told his parents he was off to go play outside. They babbled something about wearing a coat and being safe as he left out the door, but he barely heard it at all. As soon as he could, he ran out into town to the old gray building, stopping before he crossed through its shadow. He wondered if it would ever stop being scary.

He peered up at the window in question. He could see a child about his age with his arms on the windowsill and his head resting on top of them. He looked somewhere between bored and half asleep, with poofy brown hair that went off to one side, brownish-olive eyes, practically non-existent eyebrows and bright rosy cheeks. He had fairly thin arms and a prominent chin, his hopeful eyes staring down at the ground. Sherlock took a few steps forward and the boy saw him.

His eyes lit up like flashlights and a smile lit up his pinkish lips. He was practically bouncing; well, no, literally bouncing. He hopped ecstatically up and down, making his hair bob freely up and down and his clothes head come dangerously close to the top of the window. His small, babyish hands gripped the windowsill.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" he asked Sherlock.

"I am," Sherlock called back up. The boy gasped eagerly, continuing to bounce up and down. Sherlock wondered if he would ever get tired.

"You're gonna help me build a spaceship!" he shouted, more as a statement than as a question.

"I thought it was a secret!" Sherlock called back up to him.

"Oh! Right!" He said. Finally, he stopped bouncing and ducked down, "Shh!" he said, "Come inside, we can start today! But you have to use the secret entrance!"

"Secret entrance?" Sherlock asked. He was beginning to understand why he wrote with so many exclamation points, because that was the way he talked, too.

"Yeah!" The boy said in a sharp, yet loud whisper, "Go around the side alleyway, I can set it up, trust me!" Sherlock nodded and headed around the side of the building. As he walked around, he could hear the Doctor singing a tuneless, happy song to himself.

" _Secret entrance, secret entrance, settin' up the secret entrance, gonna build a rocket ship, rocket ship, nenenenenene!"_

Sherlock scoffed as he broke into a vocal guitar solo. Some secret entrance. He hurried around to the side of the building. Suddenly, the second window opened up and the boy could be seen behind it. He put a finger over his lips, said "Shhh!" and let out a long ladder made of rope and wood that was clipped to the window. "Climb up!" he told Sherlock. Sherlock obeyed. With a bit of difficulty, he made his way up to the window and fell inside. Before he even had time to get up, the boy was hurrying down the hallway.

"Come on," he whispered. Sherlock groaned at the bruises he thought he had got after falling in but the boy shushed him again. He was starting to think the answer to the bonus question would be no as he stood up and followed him. The boy rushed into the third door on the right, and he followed him in. He could see that this was where all the airplanes were coming from by both the view from the window and all the paper covered in purple mistakes and wrong folds all over his miniature plastic desk. He had a bed, a small desk, a dresser, and, taking up most of his room, a strange shape covered in a white sheet that had probably come off his bed. Was that his spaceship?

The boy sat down on his bed, his legs criss-crossed and his chest puffed out.

"I'm the Doctor!" he said pridefully. I joined him on his bed.

"That's a weird name," Sherlock commented.

"Well, it's not my real name!" he said proudly, "I picked it myself! I don't remember my real name!"

"So, other people just call you the Doctor?" he asked curiously. The Doctor pouted for a moment, a grimace spreading out behind his eyes.

"No," he said as though it was very disappointing, "Other people call me _John."_ he stuck his tongue out, but his disgust was gone in another instant and his pride returned. "They say it's on my birth certificate and that makes it my name, but what they don't know is my birth certificate is all rubbish!" he shut his eyes and stuck his nose in the air like he was very mysterious and Sherlock couldn't help but be interested.

"How can your birth certificate be rubbish?" Sherlock asked incredulously, "Are you an illegal immigant?" he asked, his eyes going wide as he slightly mispronounced it. The Doctor leaned in close, giving an over the top glance to the right and then to the left.

"Yes!" he whispered sharply. Sherlock gasped. Did he just apply to help an illegal immigrant?! Was he dangerous?!

"But it's even worse than that," the Doctor whispered. He looked back and forth again. "Okay, I'm gonna tell you a secret, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone!"

"Yeah, okay, what?" Sherlock asked. The Doctor hesitated for a moment. He peeked out the window, then at the door.

"I'm an alien from another planet!" The Doctor said sharply, "My parents are aliens who dropped me off here, like superman! I'm building a spaceship to get back home to my own planet!"

Sherlock's jaw dropped. That was ridiculous. He couldn't really be an alien, could he? ...Could he?

"That's crazy. You couldn't have gotten here, it would have been all over the news!" Sherlock reminded him with a scowl.

"It's not a flying ship, silly!" The Doctor replied, "It's a teleport ship! And it's bigger on the inside, too, so it's really small! My mum and dad just parked in some alley and dropped me off, nobody noticed at all!"

"So where are they, then?" Sherlock asked without thinking, "Why haven't they come back?"

The Doctor didn't answer for a second, a deep-thinking frown crossing his face. He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.

"I think they must have lost their spaceship for some reason," he hypothesized, staring at the bed. But suddenly, his eyes lit up again and he leaned back on his hands. "But that's okay, though. I just need a spaceship so I can get back to my home planet!"  
Sherlock was silent for a second. However much, he would have liked to believe the Doctor was an alien, he was getting a different vibe from him. He tried to remember what Mycroft had told him about denial and what it could do. _It could even make someone delusional,_ he'd said. Well, he was living at an orphanage. It made sense.

"Delusional…" he whispered.

"What was that?" The Doctor asked.

"Nothing, sorry." He wasn't sure exactly what to say. He knew it wasn't healthy to feed into his delusions, but he could hardly help himself. He was so excited. "So, a rocket ship?" he asked.

"Yeah!" The Doctor cried excitedly. He stood up from the bed, walking over to the object covered in a sheet, "I present to you," he began. He pulled off the sheet, "The TARDIS!"  
I looked at the object. It was made entirely out of cardboard, a cardboard box really, colored blue with crayon and looking like a police box from the 1950s. Filled coke bottles were taped to every end and a few forks stuck out from the top on each corner, and a strange cap of metal was taped to the top. Atop the metal was a small LED light, now turned off.

"Don't worry, this is just its disguise! It's like a police box from really long ago, I looked up a picture!" he babbled. I stared at the cardboard box. It would never fly, "TARDIS stands for Time and Relative Dimension in Space! I picked it myself! It needs work though! Wanna start working tomorrow?"

Sherlock glanced at the Doctor. His eyes were bright and filled with uncrushable excitement. He should really stop now, tell him to get a grip and tell him his parents were just humans who left him behind. But even with that plan in mind, Sherlock found a smile spreading across his face and the words "Yeah, definitely," leave his lips. The Doctor's smile somehow got even wider. He bounced up and down a little, the way he had before.

"Cool!" he exclaimed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock knew he couldn't have been gone for very long, but when he got back to his house his parents were still suspicious. They did that horribly friendly way of being suspicious, though, as though it was only curiosity. Sherlock hated that.

"Where you been, Sherlock?" his mother asked cheerfully, in the middle of making dinner, "Did you make a new friend?"

"Sure," Sherlock said passingly, ignoring his mother altogether. That would be enough for her. Not so much enough for his brother though, he knew that. He did his best to just shuffle off to his room past his brother's room with his head down, but alas, his brother caught him first.

"My brother? Made a friend?" a voice said from inside Mycroft's room. Mycroft suavely slipped out of his door and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms as he stuck up his nose at Sherlock, "What a ridiculous notion."

Sherlock scowled, pausing briefly before starting back to his room, hoping maybe he could just ignore his brother. But Mycroft turned and followed after him, continuing to speak.

"I don't suppose it was the 'friend' who wrote you that note in purple crayon that you stuffed in your pocket?" he asked. Sherlock stopped.

"How did you-"

"Don't underestimate me, brother," Mycroft told him, "And next time, you really ought to do a better job of hiding the evidence than leaving it out on the crime scene," he said smoothly as he pulled a few crinkled up papers out from his pockets. Sherlock immediately knew what they were, and he ran up to his brother to try and retrieve them.

"No fair, give them back!" he cried, jumping up and down to try and grab them from Mycroft's high reach. Mycroft smiled in amusement as he held the papers up high, reading them one by one.

"Spaceship builder needed. Requirements: Must be cool clever and not boring," he tried to hold back a laugh as he said the next one, "Bring _glitter_ if possible."

"Stop it! Leave him alone!" Sherlock cried. Jumping higher to try and get the letters. Mycroft only turned and continued fending him off one handed as he finished the rest.

"If you want to travel all of space and time, this job is for you! Oh, but note: this project is a secret. Come at night." Mycroft could no longer hold back, bursting into laughter. Sherlock scowled, finally giving up on trying to get the papers that way. He kicked his brother as hard as he could in the shin.

"Ow!" Mycroft cried. He dropped the papers, and as soon as he did so, Sherlock swept in and grabbed them. He stuffed them in his pocket, not because he wanted to keep them, but just because he didn't want Mycroft to have them and he would be able to find them anywhere other than his person. Mycroft turned back to face him, angrily lifting his leg and rubbing his shin.

"Come on, Sherlock!" he said angrily, setting his foot back down, "I knew you were stupid, but I never knew you were _that_ dumb!"

"I'm not!" Sherlock whined, "I know he's not really building a spaceship, obviously, but he's…"

Mycroft waited for him to finish his sentence, then finished it for him, "Nutters?"

"That's-" Sherlock began angrily, then quieted down, "That's a really mean word for it…"

"So, you're going to knock some sense into him, right?" Mycroft asked, crossing his arms.

"At some point…" Sherlock mumbled.

"So, no?" Mycroft asked casually.

"I didn't say that!" Sherlock demanded, stomping his foot.

"Sherlock, you can't just give into people's delusions," Mycroft told him with a scoff, "He'll end up in a mental asylum for the rest of his life."

"No he won't!" Sherlock insisted, "He's really nice and it barely affects him at all! He can focus fine, he's even really smart! He's just a kid, Mycroft, that's all!"

"He's your age!" Mycroft replied, "You may be an idiot, but you're not hallucinogenic!"

"Neither is he!"

"Do you even know what that means?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted back at him.

"You're ly-ing!" Mycroft replied in a song-song voice. Sherlock screamed in frustration.

"It doesn't _matter_!" he shouted, balling his fists, "He's not crazy! Don't you remember what the other kids are like?! They're all like that, they're all stupid! It's just that instead of believing in the tooth fairy or Father Christmas he believes in aliens! It doesn't matter! What do you care anyway?!"  
"I don't!" Mycroft responded with a scowl, "I was just trying to give you some advice, if you won't take it, fine!" he made a passing gesture and turned around, heading back to his room.

"I'm gonna believe him and help him with his spaceship every day, and you can't stop me!" Sherlock called after him.

"Don't care!" Mycroft insisted, and closed the door behind him.

Now it was a game of will. Sherlock didn't care too much about the Doctor, but he had to do it or Mycroft would have won. So, each day for at least two weeks he went to the orphanage, up the 'secret entrance' and helped him build his spaceship. He taught him a lot of things involving physic and logic and basic machines, like how he could pull a single string to take off all the caps of the soda bottles, or how he could turn on the light from the inside, or how he could make makeshift hinges and a handle for the blue door. They built little controls inside, and for a little while he didn't exactly believe it, but he went with it. It was like playing pretend.

The more days he went, the more he learned about the delusions of the boy.

"That's my planet!" The Doctor told Sherlock. The two boys hung upside down on the edge of his bed, looking at a poster of a big red and orange orb, sloppily drawn, "It's called Gallifrey," the boy explained, "It's where my parents are from."

"Why did you parents leave you here on Earth, anyway?" Sherlock asked, feeling the blood rush to his head.

"There was a war in Gallifrey against other aliens," The Doctor explained, "It was the Time Lords - that's what I am - versus very dangerous alien robots with death lasers called the daleks! My parents dropped me off here so I would be safe."

"How can you be sure they're still alive?"

"Of course they're alive, they stole a TARDIS and escaped," he said casually. "Besides, I bet the Time Lords won. They're much more powerful than the daleks." He gasped suddenly realizing something, "I have a bunch of pictures of aliens if you wanna see!" he sat up rapidly, leaping off his bed, "Come on, let me show you!"

And so it went, each day that Sherlock came. One Thursday night he showed up after school and the Doctor proclaimed that they would launch tomorrow. Sherlock smiled. Maybe it would be fun.

"You sure it's ready?" he asked him.

"Oh, yeah, we can definitely break the atmosphere with this," The Doctor responded surely, finishing up coloring the inside with blue sharpie. The whole room smelled of sharpie fumes. "Oh, and thanks for being my friend. You put maybe on the application, so I wasn't sure you would. You are my friend, right?"

Sherlock thought or a moment. He _had_ been spending and enjoying time with him for over two weeks now. Yeah, he sorta was, "Yeah," he said, "Of course." The Doctor spread that excited, rosy grin of his.

"Cool!" he said eagerly, then went back to work on the ship, "You can come with me to Gallifrey, then. Don't worry, I'll tell them not to hurt you. I'm one of them, they'll listen to me." Sherlock smiled. The sentiment was very sweet.

"Thanks," he said, then added, "I really have to go home now,"

"Aww!" The Doctor whined, poking his head out of the door of the cardboard ship, "But it's so early!"  
"Sorry," Sherlock insisted, "See you, Doctor."

"Bye, Sherlock," the Doctor groaned, disappointed. Sherlock headed back out his window, down the ladder, and back home.

"You can't keep this up, forever!" Mycroft called out to him from his room.

"Leave me alone, Mycroft!" Sherlock called after him as he returned to his room.

He sat up in bed, actually looking forward to tomorrow. It would be pretty cool, pretending to take off and go into space. It would be fun to pretend, especially with a friend like the Doctor. Maybe this was what he was actually supposed to do as a boy his age, what other boys did. Either way, it was sort of fun to leave behind the real world and go into his, with Gallifrey and the Time Lords and the Daleks. He wondered what would happen tomorrow as he fell softly asleep.

The next day, the Doctor didn't let down the ladder. It had already been let down, with a little sign in green crayon that sloppily said, "Come up, but ONLY IF YOUR SHERLOCK!" Odd, Sherlock thought. But still, he climbed up the ladder and brought it back up himself.

"Doctor?" he called, opening his door. His heart dropped at what he saw.

"Hi, Sherlock!" The Doctor said excitedly. He was inside the 'spaceship', which was propped precariously in the wide-open window. It was practically falling out, and would go over were it not tied to his bed with a long rope from the inside. Sherlock watched with wide, horrified eyes as it rocked back and forth.

"Don't!" he shouted.

"Don't worry!" The Doctor responded with a grin, "I'm just taking it for a test drive, I'll take you with me when we really take it to Gallifrey!"

"You can't fly it!" Sherlock insisted, rushing into the room.

"Yes I can, you helped me build it! And you're really clever, so, I'm sure it will fly just fine!" he gave Sherlock a rosy, hopeful grin that made him feel like he could cry. "You're really smart, Sherlock! Thank you so much for your help!" he said.

"No…" Sherlock whispered. This was all his fault.

"3! 2!" the Doctor counted.

"Don't, please!" Sherlock insisted, tears welling up in his eyes. The Doctor ignored him.

"1! Blast off!" he pulled on the rope. Exactly as Sherlock showed him, pulling the rope dislodged it from the bed and opened each one of the shaken up bottles of soda. He watched with horror as little by little the excited Doctor and his spaceship were tipped out the window. He raced over to try and catch them, but it was too late. The soda he thought would make him fly only propelled him faster towards the cold, hard ground, what seemed like miles and miles away from the window up here. A sick feeling rose in Sherlock's stomach and his face went pale as the cardboard spaceship crinkled against the ground like tissue paper. The Doctor screamed. He froze for a moment, watching him. He could see blood dribbling from inside the spaceship. At that point, he couldn't just stand there. He raced out of the room and almost fell out the window himself while climbing down the ladder. By the time he could be out to see the Doctor people were all gathered around him, both children from the orphanage and people from the surrounding street. Sirens sounded in the distance.

Sherlock fought through the sea of people to see the Doctor. He felt his face go green as he saw him, his arm twisted, his face contorted with pain and tears as he screamed and sobbed. But what was the worst part was the fact that he knew he wasn't just crying because his bones or body was destroyed, but because his beliefs were. Injury had just been added to insult, and it was all Sherlock's fault.

He ran home as fast as he could, just as the ambulances began to come around the corner. As soon as he got home he ran right to his room, bursting into tears. He refused to let his parents come in and talk to him, no matter how hard they tried. Later that night, he actually got visited by his brother, who stood casually, leaning against his doorway. His voice was filled with contempt but his face almost seemed to contain something like sympathy, which hardly suited him at all.

"I told you Sherlock," he said to his sobbing brother, "You can't just give into people's delusions."

He went into town again on Saturday. He wasn't supposed to go any farther than a certain place, but he easily passed it. He walked for miles, thinking about what the Doctor had said and what would had happened if he had just told him the truth. Could he have saved him? Probably.

He went farther and farther, his hands in his pockets, his eyes set downwards on the grass. After miles of nothing but grass and sidewalk, he finally saw something that caught his interest.

A paper airplane.

Slowly, he picked it up off the ground, not unfolding it just yet. He looked up at where he was.

A great white building towered before him, with thousands of windows and the words _Bartholomew's Hospital_ written across the top. The hospital. A chill ran down Sherlock's spine, not wanting to think about what he would need a hospital for. But was it him at all? How could it be? The paper airplane was recently made, how could that sort of coincidence just happen?

Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there?  
With dread, he opened and read the paper airplane. It was in blue crayon this time, and in the same messy handwriting he knew so well.

Dear Sherlock,

(If your not Sherlock, DON'T READ!)

Tryal 1 was pretty bad. Don't worry about it tho there were just a few problems in the final ajustments and I can fix them with better ekwipment. The doctor (the REAL hopital doctor and not me) says I broke a few things like an arm and a few ribs and I have a concushion, but that's okay they're gonna fix me up fine. It was needed for the results of SIENCE! Check for SECRET NOTES by the orphanage, cus when I get back I'm gonna start Tryal 2 and Ill need your help! SEE YOU SOON!

From, The Doctor.

Sherlock stuffed the note in his pocket, standing up slowly. It was sort of impressive how he was so sure of what he believed and that this didn't sway his feelings. It was also sort of scary, though.

At this point, Sherlock didn't feel like walking anymore. He kept the letter in his pocket and headed back home. His parents were horrified that he'd gone so far, but he really didn't care at all. He wondered what he would do when the Doctor came back to the orphanage.

But the Doctor never came back to the orphanage. Sherlock walked out there every day, looking upward into the empty window. No smiling little Doctor. Finally, he actually went in (not the secret entrance, the normal entrance) and met with the boss of the orphanage. He was an intimidating looking man, with an evil, angry expression on his face, gray hair, and a hunched over back, but Sherlock talked to him anyway. He was probably just a normal person, not a supervillain or anything.

"Do you need something, little boy?" he asked kindly, leaning over to face him.

"Yes," Sherlock said, puffing out his chest, "Can you tell me what happened to the Do- John, a boy who used to go here?" he asked, catching himself. The man stood straight up, thinking for a moment.

"John? John Smith? Little imaginative fellow, into aliens and all that?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, him!" Sherlock cried excitedly.

"Well, he got pretty badly hurt and he's being taken to a _special_ home, now," he said with a smile. Sherlock knew the condescending way he said special by heart. A lot of people had called him _special,_ too.

"So, they think he's crazy?" Sherlock asked.

"Now, I'm sure he's not-"

"No, it's okay," Sherlock said, swallowing. He didn't know much, but he had his rules of right and wrong, "He should go to a special home," he said, using the term as it was meant, as a mental asylum for minors. He used the word special the way most people used it, to mean too different to properly be accepted in society, "He's a very _special_ boy." The man gave a yellow-toothed, yet kind smile at Sherlock.

"I'm very glad you see it that way," he said, "Were you a friend?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered naturally. He paused for a moment before saying, "I have to go home now."

"Yes, of course," the man said, "Glad I could be of help, boy." And with that, Sherlock hurried back home.

He wouldn't see the Doctor for a long time after that. It was a little over 25 years before he saw his next paper airplane, folded the same, covered in the same messy writing...

((That's it for part one, ladies and gentlemen! I have part two completely prepared, however if it is not wanted it shall not be posted. If you're interested, please leave a review with what you thought about the fic and whether or not you want to see part two as opposed to something else (or nothing I suppose and that I should just leave that's chill too). Thanks for reading!))


End file.
